Snowbound

I know it’s not spring. The frozen mess from the last few days that has now melted into a soggy blob of dripping grayness outside my window tells me so. However, the single-minded purpose and extreme frustration of the last couple years is wearing off, and my brain is starting to feel that constipated itch that universally means I need to write fiction. The subconscious part of my brain has something to say and it only gets to do so well through fiction. Life is good. Today I wrote this:

~ Snowbound ~

Ripples in the frozen stream
Flow around the rocks and dream
Of warmer days to come.

Ripples in my frozen heart
Flow in warmth and dream of art
Of days I’ll write again.